


rejoice

by Cascaper



Series: Keeping Composure [9]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Reader-Insert, also I forgot to actually call good sir Eybor by his name, but yeah, in order of appearance - Freeform, they're good kids brent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 16:29:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20138497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cascaper/pseuds/Cascaper
Summary: The moment she's been waiting for is very nearly here.(In case you skimmed the tags: contains many spoilers for the early MSQ of Shadowbringers. Up to and including some in-game dialogue.)





	rejoice

It is a difficult thing, choosing which of them to go to first.

On the one hand: the girl who stood by her side from Gyr Abania to Doma’s shores and back. The girl with the razor wit and the dashing smile; the girl who could not stand still when tragedy struck, lest she be crushed beneath its weight. The girl who looked the Warrior square in the eye and demanded: _don’t you dare leave me alone. _And who, last and cruelest of all, was pulled from the very arms of victory before her eyes.

On the other hand: the boy who believed his best talents lay in his mind and his tongue, far outweighing his skills in any other field. The boy with the clever hands and the burning heart; the boy who at the tender age of eleven had sworn to save his world. The boy whose shining ideals might just carry him to the ends of this and every star. 

And who, for all those reasons, had walked open-eyed into the unknown so long ago, only to be brought back slumped and senseless like the others who had fallen in his absence.

When she thinks of it like that, it’s not a choice at all.

-

Everywhere on the First is strange, of course, under the yellow glare of the Light-drowned sky. It gives a sickly, jaundiced look to all below. But sand is sand and beasts are beasts, and [Name] crunches over the one while fending off the other with urgency thrumming through her veins. Her long black boots- Tataru’s gift- almost seem to push her along of their own accord. Up the rocks, through the grass, over every rise and fall in the road.

The fisherman’s shack is just where she had been told it would be, its owner resting pensively on the doorstep: a Hrothgar man, with mane of white and fur of blue. She tries to slow her steps as she approaches him, as she hands him the herb to show him she is a friend.

“Please- can you tell me- do you know a young man named Alphinaud?” She wishes she did not sound so desperate. “An elf boy, about yea high, with white hair and blue eyes-” at which point her voice breaks in her dry throat, and she is forced to swallow before she can continue. “Do you know him?”

Indeed he does. Thank the gods. He even knows where they might meet.

Off she goes to the tiny town, to the tinier bar where the lone bartender will not take her coin but requests her pest-slaying expertise instead. [Name] pelts up the road to do the job, pelts back, somewhat glad for the exercise; she does not think she could sit still without it. She takes the tankard with its rusting handle and tries not to drink the water too fast, her heart pounding far faster than her exertions really warrant.

She cannot decide whether it is torment or delight to wait there, knowing he is on his way. She wants to do a million things at once: to pace, to shout, to run in circles. If she knew from which direction he would come, she’d already be sprinting to meet him. She sits there vibrating in place, putting the tankard down when it becomes clear that she will spill it if she holds it any longer.

It’s been so long.

Thoughts chase each other round and round [Name]’s skull. _A whole year? How can he have been here a year in the span of a few moons? Does that mean he’s grown at all, or is that even possible… “Merely spirits,” the Exarch said. “Merely spirits that one can see and touch.”_

_I’ll take the waking spirit over the slumbering flesh any day._

_Does he… Does he still…_

She fiddles with the old ribbon, still tied round her wrist. It has faded a little, and frayed; it seems a lifetime ago that he put it on for her.

_I wish he would come._

Thus distracted, she does not notice the sound of the door opening. Of footsteps crossing the floor. Not until a voice jolts her out of her head.

“And how is business today, Mistress Theva?”

Two new thoughts in quick succession—_Oh, so that’s her name_. And, _Is that—?!? _She whips around.

Gods, gods, _gods_, it’s really him. A thick sort of poncho, striped in white, black and grayish-blue, covers him from neck to hips. White knit cuffs peek out at his wrists, matching the hint of white at his throat; brown pants and thick knee-high woolen socks show below it, leading down to a pair of soft fur-topped boots.

[Name] is on her feet before she knows what she’s doing, only to find herself rooted to the spot. Alphinaud appears similarly affected- he closes his eyes, inhales slowly, exhales a deeply satisfied sigh. Then that much-beloved blue gaze meets hers, and he smiles.

“…‘Tis good to see you, my friend,” he says.

[Name] can only smile back at him, helpless with gladness; the smile remains as Alphinaud turns back to the barwoman, presenting her with a small pouch of something or other. Remains, as the lady accepts her gift and makes her exit. As they are left- finally- alone.

She wants to run to him, to throw herself on his neck, to hug him til either he or she cracks in two. But she can’t bloody move.

Alphinaud is the first to break the silence.

“It seems an age since last we spoke,” he says, a weight in his voice. “Not since the prisoner exchange in Doma…”

He is coming toward her now, slowly. His eyes sweep her up and down, blinking perhaps more often than normal. [Name] thinks she might know why; she too is struggling to believe what she sees. What she hears.

“But the time has only added to the relief I feel,” he goes on, “seeing you safe and well.”

That loosens her tongue. “Me?” she croaks. “I was more worried about you.”

Alphinaud laughs, a short, bright “Hah!” and his smile is dazzling as he comes ever closer. “Alisaie said much the same thing. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a scolding—”

But that is as far as he gets, for that is the point at which something in [Name] snaps. She stumbles forward, takes hold of his shoulders, and crushes him to her.

“_Alphinaud_,” she chokes his name, and relaxes her hold only long enough to bring him along as she staggers backward into her seat. She wraps one hand round the back of his head, winds the other arm tightly around his waist. For an instant, neither one of them moves.

Then Alphinaud is returning her embrace, suddenly, as if some spell has broken. He showers her face in kisses, holds her with arms that seem wirier than she remembers. When he covers her lips with his own, she can feel him shiver.

“I missed you,” she gasps, mere ilms from another kiss. “I missed you every day—”

“So did I, dearest,” he says, breathless. “So did I,” and her heart bursts open. She hides her face in the crook of his shoulder; though the poncho’s weave is rough against her skin, it muffles the sobs that tumble from her.

“Oh, love,” she hears him murmur. “Oh, sweetheart… oh, I’m sorry. My darling [Name]—I’m here, I’ve got you…”

When at last her tears subside, she realizes she’s got a bit of a death grip on her darling. She sits back, scrubbing at her eyes, and blinks up at him. 

Ever the diplomat- Alphinaud shows no sign of the cracked ribs she must surely have inflicted on him just now. His face is the picture of tender concern, watching to see that she is all right.

“Your hair,” he says then, as if surprised. “It’s longer.”

What…? For a few seconds, [Name] cannot fathom what he is talking about. Then she recalls, and runs her hand reflexively through her choppy fringe. “Oh- yes. I… I left it be, while you were…” _Gone_, she does not need to say.

“It suits you,” Alphinaud tells her, and she feels the blush blooming on her cheeks as he pulls up a seat of his own. He sinks into it, never taking his eyes off her, and reaches out to clasp her hand in both of his.

[Name] knows, she _knows_ she doesn’t have him fully back yet. That she won’t, until he and the others can return to themselves in the Source once more. But right now this is the closest she can get, and she’ll bloody well rejoice.

“I believe an exchange of news is in order,” he says, with a brisk little nod. “Come—tell me of your arrival, and all that came before.”


End file.
